


Here be Monsters

by queeniegalore



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angry Sex, Bad Decisions, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Hate Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queeniegalore/pseuds/queeniegalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Claude closes his eyes. He’s not going to turn around, because that would just be the stupid cherry on top of the bad decision sundae he’s already made.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Claude and Sid are drunk and having incredibly spiteful sex. There are probably feelings hidden in there as well, but who's looking?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here be Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> For Hanet and her wonderfully inspiring prompt: _claude giroux/anyone; angry!sex or get-your-shit-together!sex (excellent candidates include danny "you gonna dive again?" briere and sidney "do your wrists hurt?" crosby)_ Obviously I went with the latter. I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Many thanks to Puckling for her usual speedy and thorough beta. It was her idea for me to use an instance of Quebecois swearing in there, but I'm the one who 'researched' it so if it's horribly incorrect it's all my fault. 
> 
> There's drunk sex here, but everyone is in full command of themselves - we're talking 'maybe a few beers and a shot' drunk, not 'Patrick Kane on a day ending in Y' drunk. Everything is very consensual.

Here Be Monsters

 

This is nuts.

It’s nuts, crazy, and they both know it, like a sick feeling in the gut, a punch to the back of the head. It’s – nothing good can come of it, nothing that’ll end well, but as Claude shoves Crosby up against the wall, the immovable bulk of him giving way in surprise, as shocking as pushing on a mountain and feeling it shift, as Crosby’s hands come up to squeeze Claude’s waist, hard and bruising and too rough, as their faces come together in a haze of beer and bad decisions and the knowledge that this shouldn’t be happening and will never happen again…

Neither of them care.

 The hotel’s buzzing around them, but it’s like they’ve found their own little pocket of silence in this room, Crosby’s room, the curtains drawn tight and the only light coming from the bedside lamps. Claude has flashes of how they got here, flashes of the look in Crosby’s eye that said ‘yes’ when always before it had said nothing but ‘screw you’, but he can’t put the pieces together coherently. They’re together, now, locked onto each other and something is about to explode.

 There had been a moment, maybe, when Claude could have walked away - a million moments, probably, but one that stood out his mind like it was lit up under a spotlight. Crosby fumbling with his door card as Claude leaned against the wall and watched. Crosby looking at him and scrunching up his nose, like, ‘what the fuck is your problem?’ Claude had thought, very clearly even through the alcoholic fuzz that had descended on his brain, _I could walk away, or I could punch him in the gut, or I could step inside that room._

 He’d glared back, and followed Crosby in.

And now he’s pushing up close, resting his forehead against Crosby’s for a second, like he’s trying to get inside his stupid, impossible head, maybe see the answers he can’t find on his own. Crosby huffs out a breath.

“The fuck are we doing?”

Yeah, no. Crosby obviously has no idea either.

 “Shut the fuck up,” Claude whispers, and rubs his lips over Crosby’s jawline in something that’s not nearly tender enough to be a kiss. Crosby lets him, settles back further against the wall, fingers still like iron against Claude’s sides.

“This isn’t…this is not a good idea.” But Crosby’s tilting his head, the words warm and sweet against Claude’s nose, the corner of his mouth. Claude can’t look at him, so he closes his eyes and just feels the heat coming off his body, along with the weight of what they’re doing.

He hates Sidney Crosby more than almost anyone else he’s ever met.

And he wants him so bad right now he could scream.

"So we should stop," he says, voice broken and nakedly begging to be ignored. He doesn’t want to stop. He just doesn’t want to be the one who wants to keep going.

Crosby laughs, and it’s just as helpless and stupid as Claude feels. “Shut the fuck up.” It’s low, mocking, and Claude wants to punch him in the face, can almost _picture_ it the need is so bad. There’s a sense memory of their fight creeping up on him, his fingers are itching and his mouth feels swollen. He needs that again, and he needs something completely different, all at the same time. It’s impossible.

“I hate you.” It’s quiet and sincere, and as he says it his fingers come up and stroke down Crosby’s neck, then dig into the dip of his collarbone, tug at his t-shirt. “I honestly…”

“I know,” Crosby says, and it’s almost reassuring. He tilts his head a little more, and Claude’s eyes are still closed, but he knows those big, plush lips are almost touching his own, right on the edge of feeling. He can’t get any _air_. Crosby is too close and he’s stealing it all, and fuck, yeah Claude wants to hit him, wants to hate him, wants to scream in his face for all the times he was _better_ , and all the times he was a fucking asshole.

“Make it fucking worth it,” is what Claude says instead, and Crosby laughs again, a low murmur, that awful Sidney Crosby laugh that hits Claude in the gut and makes it roil. His cock is hard, and Crosby is wide and solid and pliant against him, and this is happening.

Crosby kisses him like they’re dying, and Claude kisses back like he’s giving in.

He moans, and despises himself for it, and then does it again because Crosby is all over him, pushing off the wall and taking his mouth, destroying his sanity with the way his tongue swipes over Claude’s lips, the way his teeth bite and tug. Claude’s head is spinning, and his whole body feels like it’s gone molten, liquid and ready to burn up. He runs a hand up Crosby’s bicep, squeezes, wraps his other arm around Crosby’s neck to draw him in close. Crosby goes with it, wrapping Claude up in his arms like he’s trying to suffocate him, not letting up on the kiss.

_Holy fuck, this is insane._

“Wait,” Claude whispers against Crosby’s mouth, even as he’s pressing their hips together, a wave of dizziness hitting him as he realises Crosby’s hard too, hard and already rocking forward into a stuttered rhythm against Claude’s thigh. “Wait,” he says, even though he’s not waiting at all.

“Yeah,” Crosby mutters, and pulls away from Claude’s mouth, but only to move to his jaw, scraping his teeth across the skin and then biting, god, the motherfucker is _vicious_ , more bites, down Claude’s neck, and he’s moaning again, lost and crazy with lust.

“Crosby you asshole, I-“

“What?” Crosby looks at him impatiently, his eyes wide and cheeks very red, mouth swollen up and shiny. Claude swallows hard. “You said make it worthwhile. Is this up to your standards? Is it going to be worth it?”

“It’s us,” Claude says. “It’s never going to be worth it.” He can’t even tell if he’s lying or not. Probably not, but he’s going to do it anyway.

“Fuck you.” It comes out on a growl, and then Crosby’s reaching down to Claude’s crotch, strong hand rough and sure against his cock. “You wanna do this.”

“I never said I didn’t.” Claude covers Crosby’s hand with his own, grinds against it. “ _You_ want this.”

“I wanna fuck.” The words are harsh, almost mean, and Claude knows Crosby can feel the way his cock jumps at the crudeness of it. He wants to fuck, too. _Criss_.

“So let’s fuck, asshole.”

They don’t even make it to the bed.

There’s an armchair by the window, two strides away, and before Claude can even register what’s happening he’s being shoved into it and Crosby’s on top of him, all over him again, and through the fog of anger and sex that’s been clouding him, it suddenly really hits him that _holy shit, Crosby wants this too._

Considering they’ve been making out for the last ten minutes, it doesn’t seem like it would be such a stretch to reach that conclusion, but seriously, Claude’s been too wrapped up in his own…whatever, to realise that it’s not just him fighting himself about wanting Crosby. Crosby’s not just a prop, he’s in it too. Looking wide-eyed and determined, drunk and messy and overbearing and relentless, trying too hard, being too good at this for what it should be. Crosby wants it.

It’s both terrifying and reassuring, and out of nowhere Claude – oh, god – Claude wants to give it to him as good as he can. _I can do this. I can_ be _this._

He hates Crosby, and yeah, he knows Crosby fucking despises him too. But he’s not letting either of them walk away from this without getting what they oh so obviously need from each other. What a fucking waste that would be.

“You wanna suck my dick?” he asks, mouth pressed hard against Crosby’s ear as Crosby straddles him and grinds against him and uses his teeth on the soft and tender parts of Claude’s neck like a prick. “You wanna put those lips around it and taste me?”

And now Crosby’s moaning, sounding whiny and pissed off and very, very turned on.

“No,” he says petulantly, but Claude smiles a little because there’s a hitch in Crosby’s breath and the red of his cheeks has spread down his neck and to the tips of his ears.

“No? What do you want to do, then? You should use your mouth.” He’s coaxing, pressing his fingers against the mouth in question, all sloppy with spit, lax and willing. “You want to put it all over my balls? I think you should put it-“

Crosby cuts him off with another rough kiss, like that’s the best way he knows how to communicate here. His hands are back against Claude’s crotch, but this time he’s fumbling at the zipper, tugging it down and popping the button, and for once in his life Crosby has had a good idea so Claude goes with it, knocking deliberately hard and spiteful against Crosby’s wrist with his own as he goes for Crosby’s jeans.

“Can’t wait to get your hand on my cock, eh?” he says, but it’s strained, not as cocky as he want it to sound. This is not going to last. They’ll be lucky if anyone’s dick gets near anyone’s mouth, because they’re both wired to hell and ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

“Shut your mouth.” Crosby’s trying to sound tough, but it’s that petulant whine again, and who the fuck cares anyway because his hand is tight around Claude’s cock rough and perfect, and fuck him, _fuck_ him, how dare he be good at this too.

“Shut it for me,” Claude hisses, with real vitriol this time, and Crosby looks at his face, eyes narrowed consideringly. And there it is, cutting through the sex like a knife, the years of animosity, the years of pure, bone deep _dislike_ , pure and undistilled and real.

“What the fuck are we doing?”

Echo of Claude’s own words, from what seems like hours ago. Up against the wall, where they’d crashed after an argument that had started in the hotel elevator and ended up with kissing as Giroux made his decision and followed Crosby through the door. Like the moments in between were sliced away by an editors scissors, unimportant enough to be left on the cutting room floor. But reality had a way of making itself known, even through booze and temporary insanity and handjobs by the golden boy of Canada.

“I don’t care,” Claude says, “about anything you have to say to me right now. Get me off, or get the fuck out.”

But they’re in Crosby’s room. And for a moment, Crosby looks like he’s either going to crack up laughing or punch Claude in the face, and Claude can feel a hesitant smile twitching at his own lips and then –

“God, you’re a fucking dickhead.” Crosby’s hand is moving again, too dry and oh, so fucking sweet. Claude almost can’t believe how good it feels, can’t believe how Crosby’s managing to get it so right. They’ve only just begun, and Claude feels like he’s balancing on a knife’s edge, tense and hot and _ready_.

“Yeah, you know it baby.”

Crosby rolls his eyes, and then drops his head, pursing his lips and spitting on his hand to smooth the way, and _Claude’s_ eyes almost roll into the back of his head when that slickness touches his cock. “Oh, fuck, oh, _fuck_.”

“You like that?”

Crosby spits again, this time right onto Claude’s dick, and then he’s in it to fucking win it, watching Claude’s face as he jerks him off, hard and fast and almost animalic, a sneer on his big dumb lips, sweat making the hair around his face curl and drip. “You like it, Giroux?”

“Hurry up,” Claude gasps, and rubs his hands up and down Crosby’s thighs, wedged in between Claude and the plush arms of the chair. “Hurry up so I can blow you until you fucking – until you pass out.”

“You think you’re that good?” Crosby leans forward over his lap, until there’s hardly any room for his hand to work, not that Claude’s exactly looking for finesse. “You think I even want that?”

“Yeah.” Claude sneers, even as he can feel his orgasm building, taking over the sick feeling still lingering in his gut and making his skin tingle, his blood fizz. He’s about to come all over Sidney Crosby’s hand. Holy shit. “I do.”

“Prove it.”

Claude comes, biting his own lip and staring at Crosby’s face, breathing hard through his nose. It feels like being ambushed, like his body is betraying him by feeling so fucking amazing, and he’s _so angry_ at Crosby, so _fucking mad_ at him, because it might be one of the best orgasms he’s ever had in his life and fuck, Crosby might actually be incredibly damn beautiful and he wants to smash in his nose.

“I hate you,” he moans, while his cock is still dripping come out over Crosby’s fingers. “I fucking…”

“Yeah yeah, oh my god.” Crosby’s falling backwards, sliding back off Claude’s lap to stand before him, holding onto the chair for balance as he shoves down his jeans and boxers. His cock is very hard and red, smeared wet at the tip, and it’s too much for Claude to hope that Crosby doesn’t see him lick his lips. “You said.”

“I know what I fucking said.” Claude leans back, lazy for just as long as it takes to see Crosby’s furious glare turn his way. Then he’s smirking and slipping to the floor, knees creaking even though the carpet is thick and soft. He grabs Crosby by the hips, catches him off guard and shoves him against the lamp table next to the armchair – they knock something to the floor, a cup full of pens, they go skittering off in all directions – and Crosby’s hand is shaking when it comes to touch Claude’s hair.

“Seriously?” he asks, and he sounds much younger than he should. Claude wants to make that note of, of whatever that was go away, so he bites at the sensitive skin at the crease of Crosby’s thigh. Fighting fire with fire, or maybe just because he wants to.

And Crosby obviously likes being bitten just as much as he likes biting, because he groans and drops his head back, going lax and stupid and open, so vulnerable to Claude that Claude feels mad at him again. How could he…? But whatever, it’s not Claude’s problem, all Claude wants to do is make him come, wreck him like he feels wrecked every time he sees Crosby’s stupid asshole face.

 Claude tries not to think about it as his lips slide wet and messy over the head of Crosby’s cock. The fact that no one in the world gets him as worked up as this guy, no one in the world has the power to make him as angry, and stupid, as blood-boilingly _hot_. Always they’ve had this effect on each other, getting under each other’s skin and settling in like a fresh bruise. No one has ever made him want to scream and punch and come and fight and kiss and be crazy like Crosby. And he’s acted on maybe half that, the screaming and fighting, but it never occurred to him that _this_ was even a possibility, never occurred to him that maybe underneath everything Crosby could want it too.

And now here they are, Claude’s come drying on Crosby’s skin, Crosby’s dick heavy in Claude’s mouth, and it can only happen once, this fucking idiotic mistake, and then it will be back to being hateful at each other from opposite sides of the ice and nothing will ever be the same.

Well. At least now Claude will know about the noises Crosby makes when someone pushes the tip of their tongue gently against the slit of his cock and sucks the precome out. That’s gotta be some sort of fucking bonus.

It doesn’t last very long. Claude is smug, but he knows he can’t take too much credit, this is not a testament to his blowjob skills. They came together like a fucking natural disaster, Crosby ready to explode probably from the moment they slammed in through the door. But he can’t help it, the taste of Crosby’s come flooding his mouth is like vindication and Claude wants to _savour_ that, wants the memory to mean something. Crosby is covered in sweat, gripping the table like he’s about to collapse to the floor, and Claude hates looking at him suddenly, because the Crosby of the last, insane forty-five minutes is both better and less real than the Crosby that is going to be back in his life for the next rest of forever.

It’s weirdly unsatisfying, like he needs it to happen again and again before he can really understand that it’s something he’s done.

But what does he know? He’s kneeling on a hotel floor with his dick out and the very clear sense memory of Crosby’s thighs going rock hard and tense under his palms as he comes, and he’s not actually expected to think straight.

“Okay.” It comes out rougher than he expected. He coughs, and all he can taste is dick. It’s not the worst thing in the world, although he’ll want either a toothbrush or some strong whiskey in his mouth very soon.

Crosby looks down at him, very red all over, and then collapses sort of sideways so he’s at least mostly back on the armchair.

“Holy shit.”

“You know you have a very dirty mouth for being our nation’s golden boy,” Claude informs him, and Crosby just blinks back at him, looking a little shell shocked. Claude would almost feel sorry for him, but then he remembers his wrists, and the way they ache sometimes without relief, and the pity solidifies itself back into something mean and right.

“Yeah, okay,” he says again, and tucks himself away. They hadn’t actually bothered with getting naked or even taking off their shoes, so he’s pretty much good to go. He runs a hand through his hair. He’s probably fine.

“I’m going to go back to my room and forget this ever happened,” he says, and Crosby just looks away, a small twist to his mouth that Claude can’t interpret. He stands up, and surveys the fairly minimal damage to the room. For something that had felt like a volcano going off, they’ve left barely any trace at all.

He waits for a response for a second, and then shrugs and starts walking on shaky legs to the door. The unsatisfied feeling is growing, and he’s feeling antsy, like if he doesn’t leave quickly he’ll do something he’ll – well, he’s already done something he regrets. He wants to just…keep hating Crosby, keep that whole thing alive and well. It’s easier that way.

His hand is on the door before Crosby says anything, because Crosby is a little shit, obviously.

“No you won’t.”

Claude closes his eyes. He’s not going to turn around, because that would just be the stupid cherry on top of the bad decision sundae he’s already made.

“No I won’t what?”

“You won’t forget this.”

Claude doesn’t have to be looking to know that Crosby is smiling. He swears softly to himself. He wants to turn around and hit Crosby as hard as he possibly can. At the very _least_.

“Goodnight, Crosby,” he says tightly, and turns the door handle. He has his room key and his wallet, and everything else in the entire universe has to stop mattering right about now.

Behind him, Crosby is laughing, that stupid, broken, helpless laugh from before.

“Goodnight, Claude. Sweet dreams.”

Claude steps through the door.

“Fuck you,” he says, and closes it behind him.

 


End file.
